The Game eBook

Ponta lashed out, right and left, savagely as ever,
and though Joe blocked the blows, such was the force
of them that he was knocked backward several steps.
Ponta was after him with the spring of a tiger.
In the involuntary effort to maintain equilibrium,
Joe had uncovered himself, flinging one arm out and
lifting his head from beneath the sheltering shoulders.
So swiftly had Ponta followed him, that a terrible
swinging blow was coming at his unguarded jaw.
He ducked forward and down, Ponta’s fist just
missing the back of his head. As he came back
to the perpendicular, Ponta’s left fist drove
at him in a straight punch that would have knocked
him backward through the ropes. Again, and with
a swiftness an inappreciable fraction of time quicker
than Ponta’s, he ducked forward. Ponta’s
fist grazed the backward slope of the shoulder, and
glanced off into the air. Ponta’s right
drove straight out, and the graze was repeated as
Joe ducked into the safety of a clinch.

Genevieve sighed with relief, her tense body relaxing
and a faintness coming over her. The crowd was
cheering madly. Silverstein was on his feet,
shouting, gesticulating, completely out of himself.
And even Mr. Clausen was yelling his enthusiasm,
at the top of his lungs, into the ear of his nearest
neighbor.

The clinch was broken and the fight went on.
Joe blocked, and backed, and slid around the ring,
avoiding blows and living somehow through the whirlwind
onslaughts. Rarely did he strike blows himself,
for Ponta had a quick eye and could defend as well
as attack, while Joe had no chance against the other’s
enormous vitality. His hope lay in that Ponta
himself should ultimately consume his strength.

But Genevieve was beginning to wonder why her lover
did not fight. She grew angry. She wanted
to see him wreak vengeance on this beast that had
persecuted him so. Even as she waxed impatient,
the chance came, and Joe whipped his fist to Ponta’s
mouth. It was a staggering blow. She saw
Ponta’s head go back with a jerk and the quick
dye of blood upon his lips. The blow, and the
great shout from the audience, angered him. He
rushed like a wild man. The fury of his previous
assaults was as nothing compared with the fury of
this one. And there was no more opportunity
for another blow. Joe was too busy living through
the storm he had already caused, blocking, covering
up, and ducking into the safety and respite of the
clinches.

But the clinch was not all safety and respite.
Every instant of it was intense watchfulness, while
the breakaway was still more dangerous. Genevieve
had noticed, with a slight touch of amusement, the
curious way in which Joe snuggled his body in against
Ponta’s in the clinches; but she had not realized
why, until, in one such clinch, before the snuggling
in could be effected, Ponta’s fist whipped straight
up in the air from under, and missed Joe’s chin
by a hair’s-breadth. In another and later
clinch, when she had already relaxed and sighed her
relief at seeing him safely snuggled, Ponta, his chin
over Joe’s shoulder, lifted his right arm and
struck a terrible downward blow on the small of the
back. The crowd groaned its apprehension, while
Joe quickly locked his opponent’s arms to prevent
a repetition of the blow.